


The Empty Lab

by alutiv



Series: Magic and Science [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Friendship, Gen, Post-Reichenbach, Reunion, Sequel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-02
Updated: 2013-12-04
Packaged: 2018-01-03 07:03:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,237
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1067463
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alutiv/pseuds/alutiv
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>It is, at last, time to go home.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This story is inspired in almost equal measure by Coldplay's "[The Scientist](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=EdBym7kv2IM)" and by Arthur Conan Doyle's "[The Adventure of the Empty House](http://www.gutenberg.org/files/108/108-h/108-h.htm)".
> 
> My eternal thanks to 3littleowls and Anarfea, who discovered just what sort of writer I am after asking for a little more description and getting an entire rewrite. And kept beta-reading for me, anyway.
> 
> Any mistakes are, of course, my own.

On a bright summer afternoon when he was eight years old, while Mycroft lost himself in his well-worn copy of _Phaedrus_ and Mummy and Father shouted at each other in the conservatory, Sherlock Holmes ran to the ancient oak at the very edge of the grounds. He shucked off his shoes and socks, climbed into the branches, and imagined himself in the crow's nest of a pirate ship on the open sea. Behind closed eyelids, he scanned the horizon, searching for slow ships laden with cargo for the taking. He clung to the rough bark, leaning into salt air over rocking waves.

He never could ascertain exactly what it was that made his hand twitch from the branch – a beetle, a spider, or a muscle spasm were all maddeningly equal possibilities – but he would always remember the sickening second of improbably dangling, unsupported, before crashing toward the ground. He would remember the _snap_ of his arm beneath his body and the wave of nausea when he forced himself upright, sitting with his back pressed to the tree trunk. He would remember staring at his shoes, at his socks thrown haphazardly over the leather. If he could reach them, he would put them on because his toes were really quite cold now, but reaching would require motion, and the ground was still moving even though he most assuredly was not.

It was nearly dark when Mycroft found him, silent and pale, withdrawn behind the walls of what he would later call his mind palace. Mycroft never asked him what he had been doing, what he had been thinking. Mycroft didn't need to ask. Nor did Mycroft need to tell him to leave behind his childish fantasies and focus his mind on reality, on cold facts, on science and reason.

* * *

A lifetime later, Sherlock doesn't need Mycroft to tell him to cut his ties and concentrate on destroying the web Moriarty left behind. He needs two things: money and information, both easy enough to obtain with a minimum of fraternal communication. In a hostel in Florence, Sherlock strips out of his Savile Row suit and leaves dressed in jeans and a buffalo check shirt. In Paris, he poses as a Canadian student, and in Toronto, he is French. He spends an unanticipated extra three days in Los Angeles, applying ice to his swollen ankle and aloe gel to his sunburned face. Between São Paulo and Johannesburg, he dyes his hair ginger and dons a pair of wire-rimmed glasses. In Phuket, he shaves his head and wears saffron robes. In Oslo, he puts on the wire-rims and a blond wig and goes by the name of Sigerson. He wants to keep the leather jacket he wears to several coffee shops in Amsterdam, but it turns out to be a fair trade for some necessary assistance in New York. Mexico City is sweltering; Dubai is searing. Both render Prague bitterly cold by comparison. He burns through false identities and disposable phones and far, far too many cigarettes.

His last lead brings him to Monte Carlo, where he finds a new Spencer Hart suit waiting in the hotel room, already perfectly tailored to his current measurements. The clothes he left hanging in the wardrobe at 221B would hang off his frame now.

Monaco is a dead end. Drifting without destination for the first time in months, he paces the boardwalk as boats sail calmly in and out of the harbour. At a metal café table, he sips coffee and picks up a sun-warmed abandoned issue of _The Riviera Times_. A tiny little story several pages in catches his eye. He folds the paper neatly, the relevant details filed in his memory. He pulls his latest phone from his pocket and sends a brief text.

At the hotel, he cuts his hair with dull scissors and bleaches it brittle white. He drowns the phone before dropping it in the bin.

He knows where his final target is. It is, at last, time to go home.

* * *

London at night is everything he remembers, and then some. He walks the familiar streets, a single bag slung over his shoulder, surveying every direction for what has changed and what has not. He turns onto Baker Street and stops outside the black door with the brass numerals that gleam dully in the lamplight. If he sways a bit when he looks up at the dark windows, it must be because he craned his head just a little too far back. He slips his key into the lock, steals up the seventeen stairs, nudges the door open with unaccustomed caution. He refuses to theorise ahead of the facts.

The flat is empty. No one has been here in months. His things are still here, but only _his_ things.

"Oh, John," he breathes.

An electronic chirp sounds in the darkness. He follows the sound to the kitchen, where he finds a small sheaf of bank notes, another new passport, and a mobile phone with a single text message on the screen.

> Diogenes. MH

He rolls his eyes. As if he needed to be told. He types a terse response before shoving the phone into his pocket. He counts out the cash on his way down the stairs. At the kerb, a cab responds quickly to his raised hand. Same as ever. He moulds his reflexive smirk into a pleasant smile and ducks into the car. The cabbie nods in greeting. Sherlock searches the reflection of the man's eyes in the mirror for recognition and finds none. He relaxes into the seat, watching the buildings flicker past, updating his mental atlas without conscious thought on the matter.  

The car pulls up outside the club; Sherlock tips generously with Mycroft's funds. He steps over the threshold. Few members are present at this late hour. One is sleeping. The two who are awake don't bother to look up from their newspapers.

In the Stranger's Room, Mycroft is seated behind a large wooden desk, a glass of brandy in front of him, infuriating in his placidity.

"Where is John?" Sherlock spits the question through clenched teeth.

"You should rest. You've had a long journey." Slate eyes rake over him.

Sherlock waves the suggestion away. "You know how I hate having to repeat myself."

Mycroft circles the rim of his glass with his index finger, taking his time before answering in the bland tone of one completely unconcerned. "Dr Watson is quite safe," he finally says.

"That's not what I asked."

"He isn't your concern."

 _Wrong._ Sherlock's eyes narrow. "What aren't you telling me?" he asks.

He gets a hint of a raised eyebrow in return. "A great many things, on a great many topics, as you are no doubt aware. Would you care to be more specific?"

Sherlock digs his fingers into his hair, which is too short and damaged for his habitual ruffling. He resents Mycroft for being the only one who can give him the answers, for being the only one who can even know he's asking the question. "You know where he is."

"Sherlock, you need to focus. He is a distraction."

"He is a _distraction_ ," snarls Sherlock, "because you won't give me the _information_ I require about him."

Mycroft takes a sip, swallows, says quietly, "Dr Watson left Baker Street some time ago. He," a pause, as if Mycroft needs time to choose his words, "did not take your death well. How do you think he will take your resurrection?"

Sherlock closes his eyes for a beat. "He'll understand."

"Understanding is one thing. Forgiveness is something else."

"You don't know him."

"Do you?"

Sherlock clenches his fists at his sides. Venting rage at his brother has always been about as satisfying as punching water; Mycroft just absorbs the force and carries on regardless.

Mycroft sighs. "I can arrange a meeting for you, after…."

"No." Sherlock cuts him off. "Not after. Now."

As if he were not already fully cognisant of the time, Mycroft studies his pocket watch. "I think he would appreciate a full night's sleep more than anything else just this moment, don't you? Would a meeting tomorrow satisfy? Or, rather, today, but sometime _after_ sunrise?"

Sherlock nods tersely and stalks across the room to a settee that looks uncomfortable and feels less comfortable than it looks.

His back is still turned to Mycroft when the insufferable man says, "And you will let me speak to him first." It isn't a question, so Sherlock feels no compunction about leaving it unanswered. He crashes into long-overdue sleep, and when he wakes up, he is alone.

* * *

Sherlock waits in one of the pair of leather-upholstered chairs that normally face Mycroft's desk. The chairs are turned toward each other now, reminiscent of the arrangement of their mismatched armchairs back in the sitting room of 221B. He drums his fingers on the armrest, falling into the rhythm of Sarasate's _Faust Fantasy_ before catching himself.

He knows that Mycroft could opt to deliver his undoubtedly well-prepared speech to John anywhere at all – an expensive restaurant over lunch, an abandoned warehouse on the outskirts of the city, in the car while the driver simply circles the block. He also knows that Mycroft will not choose any of those locations, that he will wait to deliver his speech until he has John here, in his territory. If he actually expects that Sherlock will stay out of the room for the discussion, well, Mycroft must be slipping.

Mycroft enters the room with brisk steps, eyes narrowing and the corners of his mouth turning down when he catches sight of Sherlock, but there is not so much as a hitch in his purposeful stride. With his next two steps, he raises his eyebrows and flares his nostrils with a half-suppressed sigh. He does not stop moving until he reaches the drinks trolley at the far wall. John stomps a few paces behind, eyes burning into Mycroft's spine, shoulders squared, arms rigid. Mycroft plucks a bottle from the trolley and begins to pour.

"No, thank you," says John. As the amber liquid splashes into the third glass, Sherlock watches the expressions cross John's face in rapid succession: irritation that Mycroft is ignoring him; confusion that Mycroft is pouring three drinks for two people; realisation that there must be someone else in the room. John's face, that wonderfully mobile, expressive face, freezes as he turns his gaze to the chair.

"Why don't you have a seat, John?" Mycroft asks, calm in the way that only he can be, turning from the trolley with a glass in each hand.

John's mouth opens, but no words come out. His expression melts into surprise at finding himself seated in the chair he was about to refuse. John looks down at his lap, clearly puzzled at the way his legs have just betrayed him. Excruciatingly slowly, his eyes track upward to meet Sherlock's.

"Hello, John."

"On second thought," says John, valiantly attempting to control the shaking in his voice, "I think I will have that drink." Before the sentence is out, Mycroft has pressed one glass into his hand and set the second on the end table next to Sherlock's chair.

John raises his glass to his lips, still staring.

Sherlock steeples his fingers under his chin and waits. He would like to hear his brother's version of events, but Mycroft says nothing, just retrieves his own drink from the trolley and sips.

"It's you." John sounds half-strangled, and it throws Sherlock off balance. He inclines his head, biting back the word _Obviously_. He is unsure what bothers him more: that he miscalculated John's reaction after all, or that Mycroft accurately predicted it.  John sets the glass carefully on the table beside his chair and flexes his fingers. Sherlock flinches, mentally chastising himself for doing so. He expected anger. He could understand anger. He could accept anger. From John, he could even accept anger expressed as physical violence, or he thought he could.

Still seated in the chair, John shakes his head and settles his hands in his lap. Not going to punch him, then. At least, not at present. Sherlock reads several possible questions, containing some very colourful language, in John's shifting features before the steady voice Sherlock has missed more than almost anything finally asks, "Someone going to fill me in here?"

Relief floods through Sherlock. This is the John he knows. Mycroft was wrong, and Sherlock doesn't even try to keep from smirking as he says, "You see, I told you. He's fine."

"Sherlock," says John, tripping a little over the name. Sherlock adores that warning tone when it directed at anyone else; he finds it less agreeable now. John's eyes smoulder with controlled fury. Sherlock's words die in his throat.

"You can bicker with your brother later," John says. "Right now, someone needs to explain how the bloody hell you're here, but I have a feeling that if you try to explain, I'll knock your teeth down your throat before you finish."

Sherlock clamps his jaw shut. He is rapidly revising his assessment of how much of John's anger he can accept.

John stands, turns away from him. Sherlock swallows hard against the ache in his chest. "Mycroft, you said you had things to tell me. Start talking."

Sherlock knows it's _a bit not good_ to take pleasure in his brother's discomfort, but it's really not the moment to break the habit of a lifetime. Mycroft’s words: _He did not take your death well_. Had John been so affected? Sherlock had expected John to grieve, of course, but the man had been a doctor in a war zone. It was hardly the first time he'd witnessed death, even the death of someone he knew, someone he considered a friend. He must have developed coping mechanisms.

Sherlock knows full well that not all coping mechanisms are entirely healthy.

"There is rather a lot to say," says Mycroft, setting his empty glass on the desk. "You may want to sit down."

"If you think telling me what I want right now is a good idea, you may want to think again."

Sherlock stifles a laugh.

"Very well," says Mycroft, and he begins to explain. He tells John about the things Mycroft knew, and about the things Sherlock knew, and about the things they kept between them in order to draw the spider out of the web. He tells John about the plan Sherlock devised, filling in the facts John doesn't know, answering the questions John doesn't even know to ask. When he reaches the part about Moriarty on the roof with a gun and the snipers with their three targets and Sherlock with his impossible magic trick, John drops into the chair, his elbows pressed into his thighs. Mycroft pauses. John waves at him to continue, then covers his face with both hands.

Sherlock begins to rise from the chair, reaching one hand toward John, who glares at him before closing his eyes. Sherlock sits back down and watches John take deep breaths. He waits for John to speaks, waits for him to look up, waits for some response.


	2. Chapter 2

After a few interminable minutes of silence, John lowers his hands, raises his head, opens his eyes, and takes one more slow, deep breath. He sets his hands flat on his thighs, fingertips pressed into his knees.

“I am sorry, John,” Sherlock says quietly. “I will apologise a thousand times, and a thousand times more, and I know that it won’t be enough.”

“You really mean that.”

Sherlock’s first impulse is to ask, _When do I say anything I don’t mean?_ , which would be ridiculous, because there have been too many times it has been necessary to say something he did not mean.

“Yes, I do,” he whispers instead. He slides forward in his chair and drops to his knees on the carpet at John’s feet. He lays his hands over John’s and looks up into his eyes. “I am sorry, and it isn’t enough.” His head is an unbearable weight; he lets it hang, looking down at their layered hands.

John slips one hand out and places a warm palm over the back of Sherlock’s neck. Sherlock relaxes minutely, leaning forward to rest his cheek against John’s knee. John strokes his hair, and Sherlock squeezes his eyes closed. “I’m sorry,” he murmurs, the words more vibration than voice.

With a sigh, John nudges his hand under Sherlock’s chin and tips his head up, silent until Sherlock opens his eyes. “I know,” he says. “I know. Enough.”

Sherlock shakes his head. It isn’t anywhere in the vicinity of _enough_. This is John, the soldier, putting on a show of strength like armour. This is John, the doctor, putting aside his own pain to help another. Sherlock won’t stand for it. He needs John’s forgiveness, but more than that, he needs to earn it.

“Enough for now,” John amends.

It will have to do. Sherlock nods and stands slowly, eyes still fixed on John. The sound of Mycroft clearing his throat comes from the doorway. “Yes, dear brother,” Sherlock says, “you can come back in now.”

John turns in his chair to watch Mycroft enter the room. “I had some, ah, business to take care off,” says Mycroft, tucking his phone into his jacket pocket.

“Of course,” says Sherlock, settling into his chair.

“He means, ‘Thank you’,” John says, and the corners of his mouth twitch into a hint of a smile.

“Do I?”

“Oh, good,” says Mycroft. “I am glad, if somewhat surprised, to see that the two of you are already back in sync.”

John snorts. “Since when are you surprised by anything?”

Mycroft raises his eyebrows. “There was a time, not so very long ago, when you believed I could be surprised.”

John sucks in a breath, then says, eyes wide in a parody of wonder, “Well, what do you know? It _is_ possible for me to be even less kindly disposed toward you than I have been.”

Sherlock nearly laughs out loud at the imitation of his brother’s supercilious tone, and at the way Mycroft purses his lips before speaking again.

“I don’t suppose that while I was out of the room, Sherlock informed you of the current situation.”

Sherlock swallows his mirth at John’s sharp glance. “You know I haven’t yet, Mycroft,” he says tightly.

“Time is of the essence, is it not?”

Sherlock grits his teeth.

“So, it’s not over yet, then,” says John.

“I am afraid not just yet,” Mycroft says. “There are a few… loose ends remaining.”

“One loose end, Mycroft,” Sherlock growls, “and not even, really. Practically taken care of.”

“I still think — “

“Yes, I know what you think,” Sherlock interrupts.

“Um,” says John, “I don’t.”

Sherlock will not roll his eyes. He will not. “Mycroft thought I should wait to contact you.”

John is halfway out of his chair before Mycroft’s raised hands stop him. “For your safety, John. That is all.”

“Oh, of course,” John mutters, sitting back down, “what else would it be?”

“But,” Mycroft continues, “Sherlock has always been… impetuous.”

“I needed to see you, John. Before.”

John tilts his head, studying him. “This loose end,” he says. “It’s dangerous.”

Sherlock nods.

“Well, then, here I am.”

With a broad grin, Sherlock vaults out of the chair and paces the room, running through the salient points of the last two years. He longs to see John dazzled the way he used to be, but it’s too soon, the grief and the anger are still too raw. Sherlock settles for John’s interest, holding fast to the fact that John is still here in this room, hasn’t stormed away, still wants to know what has happened and - too much to have hoped for, too much to ask - how he can help. When Sherlock gets to his final afternoon in Monte Carlo, John stops him with a question.

“The Adair case was in a newspaper in Monaco?”

“Yes.” Why is _that_ the detail that catches John’s attention?

John leans forward in his chair and pinches the bridge of his nose. "That's one of Greg's," he says. Sherlock blinks, opens his mouth to ask a question, but John says, “ _Lestrade_ ,” before the query emerges.

Impatience. John is impatient with Sherlock's confusion. That says a lot about where they stand now. Sherlock files that away to analyse later and says, "Ah, yes. Of course, it would be."

"You're telling me that Gr-,“ John pauses, shoots a glance at Sherlock, who stands in the middle of the room, fingers steepled in front of his chin. “The man Lestrade is looking for is one of Moriarty's. One of Moriarty’s snipers. This… Moran, was it?”

Sherlock nods sharply and resumes pacing.

"That seems," John pauses, touches the tip of his forefinger to the tip of his thumb and then to his lips, then starts again. "That seems like a bad idea."

"Quite so," Mycroft says.

Sherlock stops. “Yes, good, we’re all in agreement.” Mycroft gives a muffled cough, and Sherlock modulates his tone before continuing. “I’m going to get to him first."

"Okay." John drags the two syllables out. "And you’re going to do that how, exactly?"

Sherlock grins, the thrill of the chase overtaking all else, not quite the way it once did, but close. “A game, John.”

John winces.

A poor choice of words. Every muscle in Sherlock’s face freezes in place while his mind whirls through alternate phrasings.

“So dramatic,” Mycroft says. “Sherlock is going to join in a game of cards. The late Mr Adair’s game.”

Sherlock spares his brother a quick glare before looking back at John. “Adair had a regular poker game with some other students.”

John’s lips are halfway to a rueful smile. “I lost a fair bit of money that way when I was a student, myself.”

Sherlock waves a hand. There isn’t time for a stroll down Memory Lane. Moving forward. “Well, Adair won quite a bit that night.”

“Lucky fellow.”

“I wouldn’t say so, since he was found dead two days later.”

John grimaces. “Oh. Right. Poor sod.”

Sherlock swallows the lump that forms in his throat. John cares, he always cares, he cares about a man he never knew. “The police, unsurprisingly, didn’t make the connection between his death and the poker game.”

Mycroft makes a soft noise.

“They couldn’t make the connection,” Sherlock corrects himself, “because they weren’t in possession of one very important fact.”

“What’s that, then?”

“That Moran was there, and he lost,” he says, dropping into the chair.

“Moran killed Adair over a poker game?” John rubs a hand across the back of his neck. “Takes ‘bad loser’ to a whole new level.” His eyes harden as the pieces snap into place. “Wait. You’re going to play poker against a man who killed the last man who beat him?”

“Good, you follow.”

“No, I really don’t.” John’s eyebrows draw together, forming a wrinkle over the bridge of his nose. “How do you even know he’ll be there?”

“I told you, it’s a regular game. The same people, every week. Moran didn’t join in to play poker with a bunch of amateurs. The money would have just been a bonus.”

“So, why would he join in a little student game?”

Mycroft settles into the chair behind the desk and says, “Ah, Dr Watson, that is the question.”

Sherlock’s fingers tighten on the armrests. He takes a breath. “Moran came back to London because he knew someone was after him. He suspected it was me, but he had to be sure. He joined in the game to get close to Adair, and he went after Adair because he knew Adair was one of mine.”

“One of your… what?”

“One of your urchins, was he not?” Mycroft puts in.

“No one says ‘urchins’, Mycroft,” Sherlock says. “But, yes, he was part of my homeless network, some time ago. And then he was able to connect with some distant family and left London. He came back a few years ago, got in touch with me just before….” He has to look away, and the words stick in his throat.

It is Mycroft who rescues him. “I don’t believe we need to recount the entire history of your association.”

“Of course,” says Sherlock, shaking his head. He speaks quickly, pushing the words out before they can stall again. “I believe Moran thought Adair, having been in contact with me so close to my supposed demise, might have information.”

“But he didn’t.” John’s voice is quiet, unwavering.

“No. About me, or about his original target, in fact.” Sherlock’s gaze flickers over John’s face, settling on the tip of his nose.

John closes his eyes for a moment, rubbing his forehead. “He was coming after me again, because you weren’t dead.”

Sherlock nods, eyes darting to a point on the floor.

“So, Moran didn’t kill him because he won a card game.”

“No, he didn’t.” Sherlock frowns at the carpet. “Moran must have given away too much information about himself to let Adair go.” He swallows hard, again.

“ _Or_ ,” says Mycroft, eyebrows raised, leaning forward on his desk.

Sherlock tilts his head back and studies the ornate ceiling. “Or it was an active attempt to draw me out. Moran would have known that I wouldn’t just ignore Adair’s death, especially if was a murder with no leads, the very sort of thing I used to be called on to solve. He’ll be at the game tonight, expecting that I’ll go there to investigate.”

“Which is exactly what you’re going to do.” John’s tone leaves little doubt about what a bad idea he thinks it is. “You’re going to walk right into a trap.” He scratches the back of his neck and blows out a puff of air. “And you were going to do it alone.”

“John,” says Sherlock, consciously steadying his voice as he finally, finally makes himself meet John’s eyes, “you aren’t coming with me.”

“You’re not going without me.”

“John.”

“Sherlock.”

Mycroft taps his fingers on his desk twice as he stands. “Gentlemen, perhaps we could reach a compromise?”

 

* * *

 

The last rays of the setting sun filter through the tinted windows of Mycroft’s car as they approach St. Bart’s. When the building’s facade comes into view, John’s eyes glaze a bit; his jaw goes slack. Sherlock glances at Mycroft and gets a nearly imperceptible shake of the head in response. John insisted on coming, even though he would be waiting in an empty lab at the hospital with Mycroft while Sherlock went to bait the trap. It is possible that John thinks his presence will change Sherlock’s mind, somehow convince him that bringing Moran’s original target along wouldn’t complicate matters unnecessarily.

They open the doors and step onto the pavement. John fixes his gaze straight ahead. He doesn’t look up. He doesn’t look down. Sherlock is, as ever, scanning data from all directions: the darkening sky, the line of the roof, the pigeons on the pavement, the shadowed windows of the buildings across the street. A girl dressed in jeans and a jumper too heavy for the warm weather, her stringy dark hair hiding most of her face, sits a few meters away, back pressed to the bricks, knees pulled up to her chin. She nods at them. Sherlock drops behind John and Mycroft and nods back at her. He notes a particular car idling across the street and another one parked near the corner before he follows Mycroft and John inside.

The hall is deserted, the lighting dim. Their footsteps echo in the stairwell. The hall downstairs is just as deserted, just as dim. Mycroft pushes a door open, and the three men enter a room filled with long tables, computer stations lining the walls. John stops abruptly, forcing Sherlock to dodge around him. Mycroft stands in front of a blank whiteboard, his hands folded on his umbrella. Sherlock perches on a stool behind one of the lab tables. John blinks, looks around the room, looks at Sherlock, blinks again, and lets out a slow breath.

“Back to the start,” he says. “I think you were sat right there the day Mike introduced us.”

“Yes,” says Sherlock.

“If you ask to borrow my phone again,” he says, “I will walk right out of this room.”

Sherlock huffs out a laugh. John is angry, yes, but he’s talking. That’s good. That’s very good. Mycroft just tilts his head for a moment, then sniffs and looks away. John walks the perimeter of the room, tension draining slowly but surely from his shoulders.

“I am also not getting your phone from your pocket for you.”

“Not what I need right now, thanks,” says Sherlock.

John shakes his head. “I don’t like this.”

“I know.” Sherlock hops off the stool and skirts around the table to stand in front of John, placing his hands on his friend’s shoulders, hoping the gentle squeeze conveys reassurance. “It will be fine, John. I’m just going to let him know I’m here, and then I’m going to leave. He will come after me, but I _won’t be there_.”

“You’ve got this all figured out, have you?”

Mycroft looks at his watch, exaggerated motion in Sherlock’s peripheral vision.

“Yes,” Sherlock says. He means to answer his brother, but his eyes never leave John’s face. “He will expect to find me outside, but he won’t. I won’t be there, John. He’ll run straight into the waiting arms of Scotland Yard’s finest, and this will be over.”

John straightens his shoulders, gives a swift nod, and executes a sharp half-turn, and Sherlock cannot allow himself to think about the last time he saw John go through that particular sequence of actions. John picks up a stool and sets it down just inside the open door. He sits, leaning back against the wall, arms folded across his chest.

From the hall, indistinct voices float into the room.

“They’re getting started,” Mycroft says softly. With a flick of a finger, the overhead lights go out, and the room is left in shadow. In the darkness, Sherlock consciously alters the set of his shoulders, softening his posture to a student’s habitual slouch. His dark jeans are stiff, the aubergine shirt ill-fitting, the trainers scuffed. He brushes his fingertips over the back of John’s hand as he saunters out of the room.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Additional thanks to CR2, who tried to lend her poker expertise for this chapter, even though Draw is not her game.

The faint strains of conversation lead Sherlock to the end of the hall, where a door stands ajar. He pushes it open and steps into the room, quickly assessing the four people seated around the rectangular table. He settles his attention on a man wearing a hoodie and sunglasses, a silver case open to display neat rows of brightly coloured plastic chips near his elbow, hands busy shuffling a pack of cards at high speed.

"Neil?" Sherlock stretches his lips into a smile, friendly, but tinged with the uncertainty of a man in a roomful of strangers.

Neil nods and pauses in his shuffling to beckon Sherlock closer, then points to the small pile of cash in the centre of the table. "Twenty quid buy-in."

Sherlock removes a folded note from his pocket and drops it on top of the pile in exchange for a stack of chips. He takes the empty chair next to Neil, facing the open door. To his left, around the corner of the table, is a ginger-haired bloke with round tortoiseshell glasses, a blue pinstripe shirt, and a maroon tie. He's trying too hard to impress. He's going to buy a diamond ring he can't afford, and his girlfriend is going to turn down his proposal anyway.

"I'm Connor," he says, and Sherlock gives the outstretched hand a brisk shake.

"John," says Sherlock, offering an alias he used more than once in his travels.

A voice from across the table interrupts them. "Nice to meet you, John. My name is Ginny." The woman seated opposite Sherlock is olive-skinned and dark-haired. Her carmine lips and black-rimmed eyes remind him of one of his contacts in Tehran. She could be one of Mycroft's minions, and, judging by the way she carries herself and the way those heavily-lined eyes are scanning everyone in the room, if she isn't, she ought to be.

There is an empty chair next to Ginny. Around the corner of the table, at the opposite short end of the rectangle from Connor, is a baby-faced man with messily spiked brown hair. He raises a hand in a lazy wave. "I'm Chris. I guess this means I'm not the new boy anymore." He hasn't been in London long, originally from Manchester, by his accent. Dressed in khaki trousers and a teal polo shirt, he radiates a relaxed sort of charm. The way his hand twitches over his chips suggests that he has played more poker online than at a table.

The door slams shut, and everyone turns toward the latest arrival, a tall man with broad shoulders, vaguely military close-cropped blond hair, and a strong air of _Don't Fuck with Me_. He drops a note on the stack of cash and takes his chips, the callouses on his open hand revealing long experience with firearms. The muscles under his black t-shirt draw an appreciative smile from Ginny. He drapes his leather jacket over the back of the chair next to her, and Sherlock assesses the uneven weight of the pockets: a gun, a knife, possibly a second knife.

"All right," says Neil, sweeping the cash out of the middle of the table. "Baz is here, so let's get started. Ante up, please."

Sebastian Moran is going by "Baz" these days, then. Not quite as common as _Jim_ , but close enough for a man hiding in plain sight.

_Did I really make such a fleeting impression? But then I suppose that was rather the point._

Neil shuffles the cards one more time while everyone pushes a white chip to the centre of the table. He doles out the cards with the ease and efficiency that come with practice. "Five card draw, standard rules, any questions?"

There is a long moment of silence as, around the table, cards are picked up and examined. Chris rearranges his hand, pinching two cards in particular with his thumb and forefinger. Moran makes a brief study of his cards, then turns his attention to the other players, icy blue eyes playing over each face in turn. Ginny reorders her cards, but with no pattern that Sherlock can discern. Connor pushes his glasses higher on his nose.

Sherlock slides a red chip into the centre of the table. His hand - ace of diamonds, three of clubs, nine of diamonds, six of hearts, and eight of spades - is nearly worthless, but that hardly matters.

"Fold," says Connor, laying his cards face-down in front of him with a scowl. Ginny calls; Moran and Chris quickly do the same. Neil folds with a snort of disgust, then looks at Sherlock expectantly.

Running a fingertip over the tops of the cards, Sherlock pauses, as if seriously considering his options. He selects the six of hearts to discard. With a nod, Neil deals the burn card and a fresh card - three of hearts - to Sherlock.

Ginny just shakes her head, and Moran discards two cards. Chris licks his lips and touches his fingers to two of his cards, draws back, touches them again.

Connor huffs impatiently and turns to Sherlock. "So, how did you hear about our game? I don't think I've even seen you around."

Moran's eyes bore into Sherlock, waiting for his answer. Chris finally drops three cards to the table, and Neil deals him three more.

Sherlock taps his stack of chips before tossing another red one into the pot. "I've been away from London for a while, travelling until recently. A friend sent me an email weeks ago, seemed to think it would do me good to get out and about as soon as I was settled." Sherlock peers over his cards at the faces around the table.

While Ginny takes a moment to decide whether to call or raise - she won't fold, Sherlock thinks, but she isn't certain that she holds the winning hand, either - Sherlock adds, "I'm surprised he isn't here tonight. I was looking forward to seeing him again."

Ginny slides a single red chip forward. Moran follows suit.

Chris chews his lower lip, then sets his cards down with a sigh. "I fold." He looks at Sherlock quizzically. "What's your friend's name?"

"Adair." Sherlock scrutinises his cards and adds,  "Ronald Adair."

Connor takes a sharp breath. Chris glances at Neil, whose eyes are still hidden behind the sunglasses. Ginny presses her lips together and keeps her eyes fixed on her cards. A muscle in Moran's jaw twitches, but his face is otherwise perfectly relaxed before shifting into feigned concern.

Sherlock widens his eyes, looks around, lets his smile falter, as if just noticing the dismay his statement has caused. "What is it?" he asks.

"Where've you been?" Connor leans in, sympathetic hazel eyes magnified by the thick lenses of his glasses. "You haven't heard?"

"Heard what?"

"Adair is," Connor begins, then stops, as if waiting for someone else to finish his sentence. No one does, so he starts again. "Adair is dead."

"It was all over the papers," Chris says.

Sherlock lets his cards fall to the table, drops his head down, covers his face with his hands for a moment. Through the sliver of a gap between his fingers, he watches Moran watching him. He sniffs as he raises his head. "I've been traveling," he says, letting his voice quaver, "out-of-the-way places without much contact. I've just been back a few days."

No one speaks. Connor awkwardly pats his shoulder. Sherlock clears his throat, flutters his fingertips over his chips, taps the back of his cards, and blinks hard. He gulps a breath and says, "I— I— I think— ." He stands up, patting at his pockets. "A smoke," he says. "I'm going for a smoke." Moran's eyes chase him to the door, but the man stays in his seat, his voice joining the resuming chatter as Sherlock steps into the hall.

Walking toward the lab where Mycroft and John have been waiting in the dark, Sherlock wonders how they filled the time: uncomfortable silence or uncomfortable conversation. He unbuttons the cuffs of his sleeves, hardly able to wait to exchange the shirt and jeans for something properly fitted from his own wardrobe.

The sound of a chair scraping across the floor causes Sherlock to pause for just a second. Three doorways stand between him and the one that leads to John and Mycroft and a safe spot to wait and watch for Moran to pass by on his way downstairs.

Two doorways. One, and then a well-muscled arm wraps around his neck, halts him in his tracks, and turns him to face the wall. The tip of a knife presses through the fabric of his shirt, just below his ribs. "Don't do anything stupid," a voice rasps in his ear, "Sherlock Holmes."

Sherlock suppresses a laugh. "I wouldn't dream of it, Sebastian Moran." The knife, not the gun. Interesting.

Moran chuckles darkly. "You already have."

"Have I?"

"You made a deal. Your life for theirs. You were supposed to die." The knife presses harder, and the arm tightens around his throat. "And here you are. Risky move, that was. Did you think I wouldn't recognise you?"

Sherlock sucks in air, one hand wrapping around Moran's wrist, even though tugging at it is futile. "I was counting on it," he grinds out. He keeps to himself the fact that he was also counting on Moran waiting just a little bit longer to pursue him.

Moran is silent for a moment, as if unnerved by the unexpected answer, but he regains his composure before Sherlock can take advantage of its loss. "So brave, like your pet soldier. Does he know you're here right now, alive and well?" Moran pulls Sherlock away from the wall, directing him back the way they had come. "Well, for the moment, anyway. How do you think he'll react to your death this time?"

Sherlock digs his nails into the arm across his throat. Moran just snickers and starts walking, forcing him forward. "Don't worry too much about him, though. I'll put him out of his misery before too long."

Wonderful, Moran is going to _talk_ while Sherlock slowly strangles. His vision is going wobbly, and he isn't sure if it's the swelling rage or the lack of oxygen, and both of those are interfering with his ability to _think_. He trips, trainers squeaking on the lino. His pulse pounds in his ears, and he almost doesn't hear the fluttering sound behind him. The following crash is impossible to miss. The knife tears a hole in his shirt as Moran drops to the floor. Sherlock spins around to see John holding a large black umbrella, looking stunned. Moran lies in an unconscious heap at his feet.

"What the hell is this thing _made_ of?" John stares at the umbrella, turning it over in his hands.

"A very sturdy carbon composite material, primarily," says Mycroft, stepping into the hallway. "The ribs are steel. And I'll have that back now, if you please."

John frowns as he hands the umbrella back. It looks none the worse for wear.

Mycroft swings the umbrella upward, lets it fall back to the floor with a sharp _tap_. "I was surprised they didn't become more popular after that article in the _Telegraph_."

"You can hardly expect the readership of the _Telegraph_ to keep up with the latest in fashionable self-defence," Sherlock drawls, taking his buzzing phone from his pocket.

"Nobody move!" All three men freeze, their eyes tracking the shout and the heavy footfalls of someone running toward them.

"Greg!" John shouts back.

"John?" Lestrade slows as he approaches them. "John, what are you doing here?"

"I am afraid Dr Watson rather insisted on accompanying us," Mycroft says.

"You thought he wouldn't?" Sherlock asks.

Lestrade glares at him. "I thought he wasn't going to be a part of this." He takes two steps toward Mycroft, who actually takes a single step back. "You," says Lestrade, jabbing an index finger into the centre of Mycroft's chest, "said he'd be safe. You _assured_ me, in fact."

John holds up one hand. "Wait. Wait just a minute here. Greg, you knew about this?" He waves vaguely at Sherlock and Mycroft and the man crumpled on the floor.

Greg opens his mouth, closes it, then opens it again. Before he manages to begin an answer, John waves a dismissal. "No, don't bother."

"John," Greg begins.

"I said, don't bother." His voice is stern, and Greg looks away.

John turns to Mycroft. "You called him."

Mycroft nods.

The door to the stairwell at the other end of the hall bangs open. There is a groan from the lump on the floor.

"Ah," Mycroft says, "it appears your team has found the correct floor at last."

"Lestrade," says Sherlock, "I believe there was a job you came to do."

Greg blinks several times, as if trying to recall exactly how he got here. He reaches for the handcuffs at his belt and squats next to Moran.

"It seems you have things well in hand here, Detective Inspector," says Mycroft, "so I believe we'll be going."

"I'll be needing statements." Greg clicks the cuffs into place.

"Yes, you will, but not from us. When you look in his jacket, you will find the gun that killed the unfortunate Mr Adair. There are several students you'll want to interview about their regular poker game, but I do believe they all left in rather a hurry at the shouting. Their names and addresses will be on your desk by morning." He turns away, taking a step toward the closer stairwell. "Sherlock? John?"

"Mycroft," says Greg. He stands up.

"Good night, Detective Inspector," says Mycroft.

Greg places a hand on Mycroft's arm. "Don't do this."

"I am unsure of what _this_ you mean."

Greg heaves a sigh. "Don't even try that on me."

The look of consternation on Mycroft's face is mildly amusing, but Sherlock wants no part of the conversation to come. He grins at John and gestures toward the stairwell. "Dinner?"

John's smile is crooked. "Starving."

Someone from Lestrade's team shouts as Sherlock and John duck into the stairwell. He is almost sure John laughs, but the sound is lost in the clattering of their running feet on the stairs.

 

* * *

 

Mrs Hudson is out when they arrive at Baker Street, which is just as well; Sherlock can wait another day to let her fuss over him. He watches John look around the unaltered sitting room and answers the unasked question. "Mycroft."

John nods and trails his fingers through the dust on the mantel. "Figured as much." He fingers the tear in the wallpaper left from the Cluedo incident.

Sherlock sets the plastic carrier bag of Chinese take-away on the coffee table and drops onto the sofa, closing his eyes and lifting his feet from the floor. He stretches out across the familiar cushions, the soles of his feet against the armrest, and lets out a little sigh before opening his eyes.

Across the room, John stands transfixed, his face pale and eyes wide, breathing rapid and shallow through parted lips.

Sherlock snaps up to sitting. "John?"

"Nothing." John closes his mouth, lips in a tight line, and shakes his head. He walks into the kitchen without another word. Sherlock stands, circles the table instead of stepping over it, and follows him.

John has set about making tea, pure muscle memory guiding him through the motions as if months - how many months? - haven’t passed since the last time he used this tap, this kettle, these mugs. He opens the refrigerator and removes a bottle of milk with eyes focused somewhere else altogether, somewhere far away.

Sherlock lays a hand on his shoulder, and John startles, nearly dropping the milk. He looks at the bottle in his hand and then at Sherlock. "You got milk?" he says, disbelief in his voice.

Sherlock grimaces. "Someone did. One of Mycroft's people."

John snorts. "Of course. Should have known." He turns toward the kettle, but Sherlock tightens his grip briefly before releasing John’s shoulder. He takes the milk from John's hand and puts it on the worktop, reaches for the kettle and snaps it off.

"I was making tea, Sherlock."

"Tea can wait."

John steps back. There is barely an arm's length between them, but it could be a mile for the look in John's eyes. Sherlock watches John's left hand clench into a fist, relax, and clench again.

"It might make you feel better," he says quietly.

John looks down, following Sherlock's line of sight, then raises his head with a glare. "Don't… don't _do_ that. You don't know what I'm thinking, and you bloody well don't know what will make me feel better."

"No, you're right," Sherlock admits. "I don't."

"I don't want to hit you."

Sherlock wants to say, _Yes, you do_ , but he forces the words back.

"Okay, yeah, I do," John says. "But I'm not going to."

Sherlock does not point out the unspoken _yet_.

"I'm going to make that tea now," John says stiffly. Sherlock takes a seat at the table and waits, watching John look everywhere but at him until the tea has steeped and the cups are steaming in front of them. John sits down.

"Two years, Sherlock," he begins.

"Yes."

John clears his throat, and Sherlock snaps his mouth closed.

"Two years of believing my best friend was dead. That my best friend killed himself and I didn't see what was wrong."

Sherlock winces. "Yes."

John glances around the kitchen and huffs out a breath. "It all looks the same. Like nothing happened."

Sherlock doesn't say anything at all.

"I had to leave," says John, staring into his steaming mug. "I couldn't be here without expecting you to walk in the door any minute." He sips the tea and puts the mug down with a sardonic smile. "It was too quiet, of all things. Something would wake me up, and I'd be angry, thinking it was you, downstairs, playing that violin at three in the morning, and I would be halfway down the stairs before I'd remember -"  He swallows and clears his throat, but his voice drops near a whisper anyway. "It wasn't possible. You weren't going to wake me up ever again."

"I am sorry. I didn't know… I didn't think…."

"No, you didn't." John's eyes flash, his left hand curls into a fist on the table. "You didn't think, and that's what I don't understand. Thinking is what you _do_." He purses his lips, stands up, and walks out of the kitchen, back to the sitting room.

Wait here, or go after him? Hateful, foreign uncertainty. Over the last two years, Sherlock has had a lot of time to do what he _does_ : to think, to draw conclusions, to construct scenarios and probable outcomes. And yet, he doesn't know how any of this is going to go. He can't even predict if John is coming back or leaving for good, although the lack of a slamming door is a positive sign. He did not think this would be easy, but he never thought it would be this hard.

Always something.

John re-enters the kitchen with their cooling dinner in hand. He gets plates and forks, dishes out two servings of sweet and sour prawns over mounds of rice, sets the meal on the table, and takes his seat opposite Sherlock.

The food should be delicious, but it might as well be cardboard in Sherlock's mouth. He drags the fork through the rice, pushing vegetables around his plate. Sherlock should say something, anything, start a conversation, but starting conversation was always John's area. There was never a need for small talk before, when they could sit easily in silence. Perhaps the gulf between them is too wide to cross, after all.

"It won't be like it was before," says John.

Sherlock's breath catches in his throat, and he dares to glance up. John is curled in toward the table, staring down; Sherlock cannot see his face, just the top of his head, where there is more grey than he expected.

"Things were difficult," John says, "while you were gone." He pierces a prawn, but he doesn't lift the fork from the plate.

"Will you tell me about it?" Sherlock keeps his voice low, soft, careful not to demand anything John doesn't offer.

John touches the tip of his tongue to his upper lip. "What did Mycroft tell you?"

"Nothing."

John looks up sharply. "Nothing?" He rubs his jaw, scratches at the stubble.

"He said that you did not take my death well." Sherlock fights the urge to break eye contact, to look away from the raw wound still visible. He has to look, he has to _see_. "Nothing more than that."

John cocks his head, then nods, and he lifts his fork to his mouth. Sherlock observes the muscles working in his jaw and neck as John chews and swallows before speaking again. "And you can't deduce?"

Sherlock lays his fork down and leans forward, hands clasped, elbows on the table. "I don't want to." John cannot be any more surprised than Sherlock is at his own sincerity.

John clears his throat, takes a sip from his mug and grimaces at the cold tea. He drums his fingers on the table. He looks toward the kettle, but he does not stand, does not leave the table to make tea and delay the conversation further.

"Did not take your death well," he repeats, lips contorting around the words. "Yeah, that's a way of putting it." He picks up the mug but doesn't drink from it before returning it to the table. He rubs his forehead.

Something twists in Sherlock's gut. "We don't have to talk about this now, John."

"No, no, it's fine. We should, really." John drops his hand to knead at his thigh. He doesn't seem to notice it, but the reappearance of the old mannerism after so long strikes Sherlock like a blow to the solar plexus. John blows out a breath, puffing his cheeks. "It's not… I'm not proud of the way I was, Sherlock. I should have been stronger."

"No, John," Sherlock begins, but John shakes his head.

"When we first met, I was… not okay."

Sherlock nods. He knows this. He has always known this, even though they never talked about it.

"When I try to remember it, it's like it wasn't even me, like I wasn't really there. I wasn't… I wasn't _living_ , Sherlock, I was just existing, and I honestly don't know how long I could have kept at it. And then, all of a sudden, I was chasing murderers and getting kidnapped and everything was real in a way it hadn't been since—," he breaks off, massaging his shoulder absently. "Your brother said I wasn't haunted by the war, that I missed it."

Sherlock huffs a breath through his nose, not quite a snort, but close.

"The thing is, as much as you hate to think Mycroft might be right about anything, he wasn't wrong about that. Not then. But after… after you… damn." He rubs his throat. When his hand drops to his lap, the words rush out, tumbling over one another. "You were dead, and I missed you, and I was haunted. I did stupid things to drive your ghost out of my head, and if Greg hadn't been there to help pull me out of the bottle, I might not have stayed around long enough to find out the death I'd been mourning was nothing but an illusion." He breathes heavily, a flush rising up his neck.

"I had no idea," Sherlock murmurs. "I'm s—."

"No, don't say it again. Not right now."

Sherlock presses the tip of his tongue against the back of his teeth.

"Right," says John, surveying the table as he stands. "You finished?"

At Sherlock's nod, John picks up the plates and carries them to the sink. Sherlock turns in his chair to keep John in sight. The only sound in the kitchen is the scraping of food into the rubbish bin, then running water and scrubbing. Sherlock itches to stand up, pace the room, do something to burn off the energy coiling in his chest while John arranges the dishes on the draining board.

John sets a cellophane-wrapped fortune cookie in front of Sherlock on his way back to his chair. Sherlock tears the cellophane off and turns the cookie over and over in his hand. John rips the packaging off his as well and holds the cookie up.

"Go on, then. What's your prediction?"

Sherlock shrugs. "Let's be surprised."

They crack open the cookies.

"You will achieve many things with hard work and a good attitude," John reads out. "That seems… sensible."

Sherlock reads sentence printed on his paper and tosses it to the table with a roll of his eyes. "That's not a fortune," he complains.

John picks it up and laughs. It reads: _You must examine those interesting little problems which complex life so plentifully presents_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The article Mycroft references appeared in the _Telegraph_ on [16 Sep 2009](http://www.telegraph.co.uk/news/newstopics/howaboutthat/6195652/The-umbrella-that-protects-against-rain-and-muggers.html). 
> 
> Sherlock’s “fortune” is adapted from the last sentence of Doyle’s “[The Adventure of the Empty House](http://www.gutenberg.org/files/108/108-h/108-h.htm)”.


End file.
